


Don't Dream It's Over

by DaintyDuck_99, flowerchilddarcy



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Rewrite, Emotional, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Family, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Mutual Pining, OT3, POV Multiple, Pining, Season/Series 02, Slow Burn, Supernatural Elements, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:22:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27177154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaintyDuck_99/pseuds/DaintyDuck_99, https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowerchilddarcy/pseuds/flowerchilddarcy
Summary: “You cut your hair,” Steve says after a pause. Jonathan has to stop himself from touching it. He still isn’t quite used to how light it feels or how the autumn chill bites into his nape.“You grew yours out,” he returns.Steve chuckles. “Guess we switched styles. Short suits you, though.”Jonathan feels like he injected some of that "pure fuel" straight into his veins. The cold isn’t bothering him anymore, at least.“You look nice, too,” he somehow manages to say around the knot of his tongue.Or: A version of season two that focuses on the character development and dynamics we were robbed of in canon. *ON HIATUS*
Relationships: Eleven | Jane Hopper & Jim "Chief" Hopper, Jonathan Byers & Joyce Byers & Will Byers, Jonathan Byers/Nancy Wheeler, Jonathan Byers/Steve Harrington, Jonathan Byers/Steve Harrington/Nancy Wheeler, Joyce Byers/Jim "Chief" Hopper, Mike Wheeler & Nancy Wheeler, Steve Harrington & Dustin Henderson, Steve Harrington/Nancy Wheeler, Will Byers & Maxine "Max" Mayfield, Will Byers/Mike Wheeler
Comments: 4
Kudos: 33





	1. Watching in Slow Motion

**Author's Note:**

> flowerchilddarcy and I have already come up with a [playlist ](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1ELlIEaZxJcP6b4bLyMqIM?si=595wIPKLTaSu6vnWxgvepQ)for this story (some of which may or may not come up in the story itself, so have fun speculating). Also, we aren't rewriting everything: we mostly want to explore more bonds and dynamics between the characters and give the narrative a tighter pacing.

# i. Will

Will knows that he is becoming unglued. The others have their suspicions, but he isn’t selfish enough to drag them through the filmy curtain that waits for him in parking lots and empty stairwells.

He keeps his head bowed over Mike’s history notes and lets them dissolve into a million caterpillars. Will thinks maybe he teased him about it, Before. 

_Snug in Castle Byers, or perhaps a dream, Will peeks at Mike while he concentrates. His face is scrunched like one of Will’s favorite sweaters: deceptive, still soft once the creases are soothed away. Will shouldn’t look. The campaign is always a surprise. Mike ought to be more of a surprise, but he already knows him too well. He shouldn’t look, but he does. Mike finally scrawls something and Will’s laughter is a startled dove that ruffles the comfortable silence._

_“What?” Mike huffs, but it’s buoyed by pride, a light exhale. Will rarely laughs loud enough to take up any space._

_“Your letters. They’re marching off of the page like little caterpillars,” Will replies with a smile._

_“Yeah, well, wait until they turn into a swarm of monsters, Will the Wise,” Mike returns, eyes glinting._

_They won’t, Will thinks helplessly. Not from you. They’ll only become more beautiful._

Cafeteria chatter continues to wash over him as he forces Mike’s notes to morph into words, stuffing everything back into their cocoons. He manages to copy a few sentences about the Puritans. 

“ **She** -” 

Will presses so hard that his pencil lead snaps. Mike has reserved that tone for one specific person. 

The bubble of chatter bursts. Will’s friends look at him like he is a stranger, except for Mike. His face scrunches in that temporarily tough way, and it, at least, is familiar. 

“Are you okay, dude?” Lucas breaks the silence first. Dustin slides him another pencil. 

He is “saved” from answering by the staccato of Stacy’s scoff. 

“If you don’t know the obvious answer to that question, Zombie-Boy has clearly already eaten your brain,” she says from the next table over, disdain dripping from each word. 

_It must be tiring to actively hate everything all of the time,_ Will speculates distantly. He puts a hand on Mike’s shoulder before he can open his mouth. Will knows it would only lead to her boyfriend stuffing Mike into another garbage can, or worse. Mike has thrown himself into enough trouble lately as it is. 

“I’m fine,” Will finally responds softly. “Just too excited about going to the arcade later to focus much. I realized I forgot to ask my mom, is all. I’ll go call her now.”

He removes his hand and scoops up all of his notebooks, but not before giving a reassuring squeeze. No one protests, and Mike doesn’t say anything about his notes. Will will return them to him during science class. 

As he threads through the hallway, intent on reaching the art room, a new voice calls after him. The voice is new, but the name is old. 

Will ignores it at first, but whoever it is seems urgent instead of malicious. Sighing, he turns around very slowly. A girl with long, red hair like Jean Grey’s stalks towards him. He almost pivots and flees anyhow, but then he spots the sheet in her hand. 

The familiar shades of green easily catch his eye. He’d spent far too long blending them together just the day before. Will doesn’t dare look up from the paper as he plucks it from her grip. It must’ve slipped between his books since he isn’t used to carrying Mike’s around, as well. 

“Er, sorry for calling you Zombie-Boy.” She scratches behind her ear sheepishly, using her free hand to gesture to the drawing. A zombie version of himself stares back at him as she speaks.

“I wasn’t sure what else to call you, but it’s a great drawing.”

Will’s lips curve into a soft smile. Her words seem genuine. 

By the time he’s steeled every nerve in his body to look up and meet her eyes, she’s vanished. The bell shakes the cinder block walls, further disrupting a moment that has long passed. It isn’t until he’s finally reached the art room that Will realizes he never caught her name.

# ii. Steve

 _Excellent, free period,_ Steve thinks bitterly as the bell clangs. He shuts his locker with his hip. Does he want to work on physics homework or his job application? The numbers and letters swim in his head like alphabet soup until he’s dizzy. 

He hurries past the gym before Tommy can do something dumb like lob a ball at him. As if not being Cool anymore means he automatically sucks at basketball. Honestly, he’s barely even cool at this point, not that it will matter in about a year, unlike the application that feels like a lead weight in his backpack. 

Steve settles in the one location where no assholes will bother him: the library. He knows because he can still think like one of them, is one of them and isn’t, and even now, he doesn’t exactly feel comfortable here. He isn’t actively looking for _them_. He usually just winds up running into the people he’s trying to avoid. 

He’s not looking for her, he’s _not,_ but he almost immediately spies Nancy in the corner. She sways, unblinking, and Steve walks as quickly past Mrs. Adler’s desk as he can without her assigning him a detention. He touches Nancy’s wrist. 

“-rb?” 

Stomach sinking, Steve follows her line of sight. A short, heavy-set girl with a halo of red curls strains to grab a book from one of the upper shelves. She doesn’t look that much like Barb, not really. They could have been cousins, maybe. 

Everywhere he turns, a glass wall of ugly truths confronts him. Steve is pinned in on all sides like the butterflies he refused to skewer when he was a Boy Scout. Suddenly, he would much rather work on his application. Steve shakes his head, hoping to banish the persistent cobwebs of such depressing thoughts. Muslin*, or something, Nancy would call them if she knew.

“Hey, Nance. Nancy, come on, it’s not her,” Steve coaxes. 

Her eyes cut into him like chips of ice once they clear, and he flinches. The tension leaves her body when she exhales. Her gaze thaws, but the damage has already been done. 

_Get it together, Harrington._ He asks Nancy if she’ll look at his application. It’s the sort of thing he would’ve done about a year ago, turning the big doe eyes on her like a spotlight, bathing her in his charm. Now—well, now, it’s complicated. But she leads him back to her table. 

Jonathan freezes and they’re all suspended in the glass walls, but there are so many between them that they can only watch one other flail. Steve knows what Nancy calls this: he could answer that on national television, no sweat. _What is bullshit, Alex._

She’s right, too. 

“Stay, man.” Steve throws up his hands in a desperate show of acquiescence. Jonathan has always been more difficult to reach, at least for Steve. This feels like bullshit, but it’s self-defense, and Steve hasn’t earned anything less (yet). 

How do you fight monsters and demolish a house together without settling into a friendship? _Easy. By nuking the original friendship and choosing to be an asshole until bigger monsters showed up._

“I’ll even let you look at my poor-ass attempts to be formal on this dumb application. I need all of the help I can get,” Steve tacks on weakly, and it’s almost a plea. 

Jonathan purses his lips, but his shoulders relax by a fraction. His eyes are hidden by his hair. 

“Wait,” he blurts out after a few minutes of silence. He leans over the table to examine Steve’s stack of papers. Steve catches a whiff of vinegar and citrus and _wow he really should not be paying attention to that._ He quickly erases a stray comma. 

“This is...an application for your dad’s legal company.” As usual, Jonathan’s face is frustratingly indecipherable. Steve shrugs. 

“Yeah. I mean, even though I don’t have a good shot at college right now, you don’t need more than an associate’s degree to eventually become a paralegal. And if I can get my foot in the door, they might be willing to foot the bill later. I figured that might motivate me to stick with it, so.” 

He bites the inside of his cheek to stop rambling. 

All Jonathan says is, “Hmm,” which tells Steve exactly fuck all. 

“Why?” He can’t help but ask. Jonathan shrugs. 

Nancy chimes in, “If that’s what you want to do, great. Maybe throw a transition in between your grandpa’s war story and the basketball anecdote, though.” 

Steve bites his lip, “The connection wasn’t obvious?” 

While they must’ve had their own shit to do, Nancy and Jonathan spend most of their free period helping him. _That has to count for something,_ Steve hopes. 

Nancy still gives good advice, but her mind is elsewhere. That girl really rattled her, more of a tangible specter than the cartoony ghoul and witch posters that adorn every other bookshelf. Nancy’s fingers dance on the table top, a sure sign that she’s restless. 

The unicycle Steve has for a frontal lobe starts pedaling at top speed. 

“You should practice shooting!” he exclaims triumphantly, shoving his all-but-finished application out of sight. 

“.......................................” 

Nancy and Jonathan both glare at him, but that might have more to do with the fact that he got them kicked out of the library. Steve sheepishly runs a hand through his hair. He and Jonathan follow Nancy to her locker. 

“Okay, my bad. I’m serious, though. You want to do something about Barb, right? I may not be the brightest person here, but.” He looks around and actually lowers his goddamn voice. “It was obvious that she only ever wanted to protect you. I think she would like that you could protect yourself. Plus, who knows what other kind of weird shit will find us in this town? Or our families? I say, if you want to do something productive, work on shooting. Especially since the government has our balls in a vice.” 

She hums like she’s considering it. Looks at him like maybe he’s worth something, after all. 

“We could use the woods behind my house,” Jonathan says, then shuts his mouth with a click, as if he didn’t mean to say that out loud. 

Steve throws an arm around his shoulder. _We_ has him light-headed. 

“That’s what I’m talking about! What do you say, Wheeler?” 

She turns to catch his gaze directly. A small smirk sharpens the rest of her features and _spending time with these two is going to be dangerous._

“Fine. But you’re giving me rides,” she barters. Steve throws his other arm around her. 

“Great. Beats working on physics or listening to my mom’s Wham records.” Jonathan makes a face that is decidedly disgusted, and Steve cackles. 

His laughter attracts the attention of a guy he’s never seen before. Tall, tan, muscles and mullet on display. Steve doesn’t like the way he’s studying them, like he’s some kind of shark, sizing them up.

Steve urges Nancy and Jonathan away from her locker, praying for the bell to ring and cover them in a swarm of other students. 

All he gets is an exaggerated smile from the stranger that feels like it should be accompanied by the shriek of a violin.

# iii. Eleven

Orange is a color that belongs on pumpkins and sweet potatoes, but it sweeps across the hills for as far as her eye can see. It envelopes her along with other misplaced colors. Yellow is that of bananas and her favorite sweater, but it crunches under the weight of her rocking chair as she sways along with the breeze. Burgundy is a new color to Eleven, but she knew it wasn’t normally the color of leaves. 

As winter turned into spring, and spring into summer, the world around her turned lively and green. She was under the impression that summer is as beautiful as it gets, but she knows now that she’d been mistaken. Sometimes, Eleven stays long enough to see the sky turn orange too, for she’s discovered that luckily, it happens all year around. 

Her eyes fall to the heavy object in her hand. Carefully, she brings the warm liquid up to her lips in an effort to not burn herself like she had the first time. It’s still warm. Each sip feels as if it runs through all of her limbs, heating her up as well. A warm feeling buzzes within her fingertips as she taps them along the side of her cup, forging a fascination with the sound it creates. It’s nearly the same feeling she would get when Jim Hopper told her she’d done well. 

The warmth feels equal to a smile he gave her once, seeing her hair clipped back for the first time. And when she thanked him, she’d struggled putting it into words. Happiness, he’d explained. What she was feeling was happiness. 

There were times when that feeling didn’t last as long as she would have liked. Broken by flashing lights in her dreams. Bright blue, jarring, and very alarming. Blue is also a color, but more importantly, it is a feeling. Blue is the tears that soak her pillow late at night after jolting awake from the sight of that awful man’s face in her dreams. Blue is the last brush of Mike’s fingertips seconds before she was forced to vanish from all her friends' lives. Blue is the screams echoing in the pitch black that used to be her home. Somewhere in the void, she is sure it is painted blue. 

She curls a steady hand around her arm, wrapping herself up in a sudden desperate need for comfort. Slowly, the orange embraces her again. Her memories are echoing away as she stands. 

Eleven gathers the flannel blanket she’s dragged outside with her. Quickly, she tosses it over her shoulder. She whispers a silent goodbye to the orange and yellow leaves, convincing herself it’s close enough to staying out to see the changing sky.

Her aunt doesn’t question her as she enters the house with a frown. By now, Eleven is certain her inevitable sadness is predictable. 

She lays the blanket over her mother and she is draped in purple, a mixture of happy and sad. She briefly slides her thumb over Eleven's wrist and she glimpses the blanket in the small box that would have been her bed. Everything is purple, and Eleven has to leave the living room to escape the weight of it. 

It feels like yesterday (it was really nine months ago) when she was shaken awake from a dream. A really bad dream. Jim looked blue as he held her tight in his arms. Trauma, as he explained it that night, is something that can haunt you forever if you refuse to heal from it. He must’ve doubted his abilities to comfort her, knowing work was keeping him too busy. Besides, in his mind, no matter how hard he tried, he’d never be the parent she lost when she was young. 

He cried. The image sticks with her daily. He wrapped her up so close in his arms for his final goodbye, and then he was slipping away towards his car. It was seconds in time, but she thought about it everyday for _months._ His intent was for her to grow, but he somehow left a hole of his own in her chest. 

“Do you think I’ll see them again?” She pauses in the kitchen. 

Her aunt doesn’t answer, but her look of empathy surely does. _It’s enough,_ Eleven thinks. It is all she needs. 

She slips away into her room, dashing towards the vanity. Her hands fumble with the hair clips as she harshly slides them up into her hair, pushing away the now much longer curls. They had made her happy. They made him smile. 

Eleven lets out a painful cry at the sight of her own reflection. 

How was she to know what healing felt like? 

*Maudlin


	2. Who You Gonna Call?

## i. Max

Annoyance creeps easily through Max’s bones like second nature. It’s her first day of school and she’s officially wasted the majority of it in the office. Apparently, there are complications with her schedule. Schools in California don't have the same credentials as schools in Indiana, and essentially, some of her credits have been cut in half. According to the secretary, this means she has to take another semester of health class before she can be considered a 7th grader. 

Max refrains from stomping the entire way to her final class (and the only class she gets to attend) of the school day. A teacher from the office stands next to her, guiding her through the labyrinth of hallways. They stop abruptly in front of a closed door, and suddenly, she’s being shoved forward into the overcrowded classroom. 

In front of the class is a lanky dark haired man, who stands hunched with his arms outward, clearly stopping himself mid-sentence at the interruption. The confusion flashes away from his face in less than a second. Max is ready to bolt to the only empty seat at the sight. She glances over her shoulder quickly to the door, checking out her escape. The woman behind her has disappeared by the time he beckons her over to his side. 

The introduction is awkward, and she burns in anger after correcting him on her name. She holds her head down, outwardly ignoring her peers before storming off to her seat. She doesn’t mean to come off hot headed, knowing how it doesn’t make her that different from Billy. 

The feeling of eyes catches up to her eventually, and she gives into the crushing atmosphere as she finally peers up from her sweaty hands. Familiar brown eyes pour into hers from across the room. They break away hesitantly. The boy she ran into sits in the front of the class, and he looks nearly suffocated by the three boys sitting with him. He’s turning back in his seat to face their teacher, who Max has grown to acknowledge is named Mr. Clarke.

Max forgets her anger for a little while after that. Well, up until Billy yells at her for being a nuisance after picking her up from the arcade that night. 

“That’s one strike,” he grumbles, and then they are off. He takes a 60 in a 35 the whole way home.

The next day, it doesn’t take a psychic to spot the prying eyes on her. Max knows she has a decent intuition. She can practically see the eight eyes watching her from the back of her head. Their glares itch against the back of her hand as she skates away, using the October wind as an escape as it whips against her skin. Eventually, she gives in to the rash, and squiggles onto a loose sheet of notebook paper with a crayon she’s picked off the ground. 

She rolls her eyes at the commotion behind her before tossing the paper into the trashcan resting on the other side of the steps. She doesn’t wait around, slipping back inside the building instead.

Later, she stands at her locker, fumbling around with the lock she isn’t yet familiar with. The note she wrote earlier, she believed, would finally make them leave her alone. Two of them stand next to her though, decked out in costumes that highlight them throughout the school.

“What do you want?” Max asks, not even sparing a glance up from her books as she slings them into her bag. She’ll be late. Billy is going to kill her.

“Oh,” the one with the curly hair speaks up after being elbowed by the other, “we just wanted to…”

Max quirks an eyebrow. 

“To ask if you want to go trick or treating with us.” The other boy finally speaks up. Max can’t help the snicker that flies past her lips. In reality, she’s shocked by their bravery, but the snicker makes her look pretentious, and she’s well aware of that. In a way, she uses her coldness to her advantage. 

“I thought I told you to leave me alone.” She notes. She feels flattered, but she won’t show it just yet. She doesn’t trust them. 

“Actually, you told us to stop spying.” The curly haired one spoke up again. 

“Dustin.” The other hissed, jabbing Dustin in the stomach again. He turned to Max instead, “Look, I’m Lucas and this is Dustin, and we just figured you’d have no one to go with.” 

Oh. Well that just took the flattery out of the equation. She knits her eyebrows together, mumbling a repeat of the end of his sentence. 

“So,” Dustin pipes up after a brief moment of silence, “do you wanna come along?” 

Max just rolls her eyes at the audacity before glancing across the clock in the hallway. Fuck, she’s already running late. She ignores Dustin’s pleas and Lucas’s sorrowful eyes as she slams her locker shut and brushes past them as if they weren’t in the middle of a conversation. 

“Is that a yes?” Dustin shouts at her back, but she doesn’t even register the words before throwing herself at the door. 

She’s outside and slipping onto her skateboard to reach the blue camaro parked across the lot faster. Billy’s mad of course, even though he didn’t seem bothered while he was busy kissing that girl against the side of the car. Max holds back a remark for as long as she can, but when they hit a straight stretch is conveniently the time one slips from her lips. He’s already off his rocker, murmuring shit under his breath before hitting the gas hard like usual. 

It’s not ‘til she sees them that she breaks into true panic. Those costumes, the same ones highlighted the entire day, stick out like a sore thumb no matter where they are. 

“Billy, slow down!” She resorts to begging after a couple seconds of him only increasing his speed. 

He mocks her, mumbling more shit before breaking off in screams of anger. Terror crawls through her bowels, and she’s positive she’s about to vomit all over his lap as she takes the wheel and the car swerves around the boys, missing them by inches. 

She watches them in the reflection of the mirror as Billy speeds away. For a fraction of a second, she prays they won’t hold it against her. 

## ii. Hopper 

Jim sighs at the meager pile of papers on his desk. Most of them are for some new teenager who thinks he’s a badass because the population of Hawkins is roughly equal to that of his former high school, probably. Not that Jim can do much about it at the moment. All he has are several complaints about Hargrove driving recklessly past Mrs. Spulders house, and she’s been half-blind since 1952. 

_Maybe I’ll join the police force and get paid to do jack shit,_ he had told Joyce all of those years ago, half-sitting in the bed of his green truck. She had only laughed and plucked his coffee from his hands while he was enchanted by her mirth. 

_I think you would make a great cop,_ she had replied after taking a sip. _You act tough, but you care about people. Hawkins could use more policemen like that._

They had both been right. The force was still lacking in officers with basic empathy. Not that it usually mattered, as there was also still all but nothing to do—Before and After. He wishes he had more to do, wishes he could shake his younger self by the shoulders. 

He wonders if she has been getting his messages, absentmindedly tapping out — — .. … … 

— . — — — — — .. — , the way he has been for days. She might be used to the cloak of black curls, still shocking in his mind’s eye. 

He’d told Becky about her affinity for waffles, but she’s probably eating stuff like carrots and apples—the stuff she should be eating—more often than not. He would have smothered her in waffles and hot chocolate. He never could say no to a pleading pair of warm, brown eyes. 

Jim rubs his face like it will scrub away the pain. He can’t stay in his office any longer. All he’s doing—done—is collecting dust and heartache, a shitty human vacuum. He’d waved off Bauman with that call about the pumpkin patch, and he could use the distraction. 

He grabs the most obnoxious pastry from the pile before his receptionist can stop him on his way out. Jim toys with the idea of swinging by the store as he sits in the lot, engine idling. He should check on the Byers’, anyway. He could tell Joyce about Bauman, how he was so right and so wrong at the same time, release some of his concern without telling her more about Eleven. 

No—she’d smile, but then she would draw into herself to overthink, arms and distant thoughts curling around herself with worry. Best not to mention it. 

The radio taunts him as he swings out of the parking lot, blaring some love song that’s gooier than his donut. 

_Why are you so far away she said_

_Why won’t you ever know that I’m in love with you?_

_That I’m in love with you?_

_You, soft and only, you, soft and lonely—_

He switches the station and wishes he could change the rest of his life that easily. 

## iii. Joyce 

Joyce scans the increasingly sparse treeline for the insidious smears of black that taint Will’s drawings. Despite what the scientists say, she doubts it’s simply in his head or confined to the two-dimensional sheets of printer paper that blanket his desk. Joyce is no stranger to anxiety, and this is not that. Anxiety is formless, a frantic metronome heartbeat that hammers into your ribcage without the appropriate music. It has no rhyme or reason. 

This Thing, though. Anyone would rightfully have a reason to fear it, a giant black claw ripping into the most primitive part of the brain, ready to mangle the life out of you like it’s nothing. Will could never create something so terrible. It couldn’t possibly have come from him.

She exhales smoke and pretends, for a moment, that she is releasing her negative thoughts. Joyce holds her cigarette outside of the passenger window to be polite, even though she knows Jim wouldn’t care if she smoked in the car. Some new, soft rock song floats through the radio. 

It’d been surprisingly easy to convince him to let her tag along on his little farmland investigation. Perhaps he had sensed that they both could use a distraction. She’d finished Will’s Halloween costume, anyway, and it’s not like the store could fire her, as she’s the only employee that bothers to balance the drawers properly. 

Jim drums on the wheel, a habit he’s held onto since he used to space out in math class. It’s more systematic, now. _Morse code,_ she thinks. Before Lonnie left, she and the boys were sometimes able to tap out short messages. Will and his friends still use it for games, and she’s proud of him for reclaiming something that was once for survival.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Jim offers gruffly as they cross into the outer limits of town. 

“I’m worried about Will,” Joyce says instead of asking who he misses. 

He reminds her of a snake chasing its own tail, curling inward for protection and only choking on new and old pains. Maybe someday—if she didn’t have so much on her plate— 

They talk about Will and a little about the spoiled pumpkins. He reassures her that even if the lab won’t help, he will. She’d never doubted that, but it’s good to hear. 

When they get to the farm, she can’t bring herself to get out of the car for a moment. A sense of wrongness strikes her like lightning and the urge to find her sons and never let them go is all too familiar. Jim places his hand near hers, letting her choose, and the autonomy is grounding. 

_They’ll be fine_ , Joyce reminds herself. _It’s just one night, and they’ll be with other people._ She slides her pinky over his, and he coughs.

“So, pumpkins!” he declares a little too forcefully. She smiles, a ghost of the laughter she would’ve responded with years ago. 

“Pumpkins,” she agrees quietly. 

Minutes later, the feeling of wrongness returns. Joyce toes at one of the rotting pumpkins and barely resists the impulse to vomit. 

“I know it’s just a hunch, but I was right about Will before.” She paces in a small circle around Jim, wringing her hands. “I don’t know if this is related, or if I’m right now, but shouldn’t we tell someone?” 

“That depends. Do we _trust_ ‘someone’?” A male voice cuts in from behind them. 

Joyce can’t help herself: she shrieks. She’s not some useless damsel, though—she grabs Jim’s taser and flips it on, whirling to face the stranger. 

“Who the hell are you?” she bites out. 

The scruffy man barks out a laugh and she tightens her grip. He resembles a bush with glasses, scruffy and wrapped in muted colors. 

“Oooh, she’s feisty!” Despite his candid words, he stays a good ten feet away. “No wonder you got your son back.” 

"Thank you?” She can’t tell what this guy is playing at. 

He shoots an exasperated look over her shoulder. “Jim?” 

“Considering that you’re trespassing and stalking an official police investigation, _after_ I specifically told you to go home, I might let her tase you.” He moves to stand next to her, arms crossed. 

The stalker shakes his head. “Listen. I may be a recluse, but I’m not stupid. Far from it, actually. Anyone with a lick of common sense should know that something weird is happening in this town. Anyone who’s had a first-hand helping of weird ought to know that. That’d be you all.” 

He turns to Joyce. “Don’t you want to stick it to those federal assholes who tried to take your son away forever? I’m always for sticking it to the Man, but even so. Help me to help you. We’ll shut them down along with whatever nefarious thing they’re working on this time.”

Joyce slowly lowers the taser. 

“I’m listening, but,” Jim gestures to the desecrated pumpkins, “do you think that has something to do with this, or were you just conveniently here to ambush us?” 

“Yes,” he answers simply. “I’ve already documented this, by the way—you’re welcome.” He tosses a stack of polaroids to Jim. 

Jim huffs, “Fine. We’ll talk more, but not here. Joyce has to get home, anyway.” 

He waves to the man. “Joyce, this is Maury Bauman. Bauman, you already know who we are.” 

Jim holds out his hand. Joyce drops the taser into it and hurries to keep up with his long strides. 

“Can we really trust this Bauman guy?” she whispers. She glances behind them. Bauman walks like he has all of the time in the world, as if it was his land they were on. Jim sighs.

“We can trust him more than most people in Hawkins. Probably more than the lab,” he responds after a long minute. 

_That’ll have to be enough,_ she thinks, and Joyce prays that she and Jim are right. 


	3. Something Evil's Lurking

## i. Mike

“-beat our record. So, of course Dustin wanted to stalk her.” Mike speaks into his walkie-talkie. Static fills in the empty spaces between words. “Halloween already feels ruined. Today has felt so off, El. Will’s been acting really strange lately, but I feel like I’m the only one noticing and-“ 

“Mike!” his mother's call carries down the basement stairs. 

Mike sighs before muttering a ‘talk to you later’ to the dead end. He ditches the walkie-talkie on the couch—probably throwing it with too much force—before adjusting his costume. The glare of the camera blinds him before he even sets his foot off of the stairs. Mom’s slender fingers clutch tightly around his wrist, dragging him to a sudden halt by the front door. 

Before he has a chance to complain, a knock erupts on the other side of the door. Quickly, Mike is dashing out of her focus, pulling the front door wide open. 

“Is it just you two?” Mike shoves his head outside, glancing both ways. 

“He isn’t here yet, so yeah.” Lucas shrugs, nonchalant. 

A knot forms between Mike’s eyebrows as he pushes himself out the door. His hands fumble to close it behind him before stepping out onto the lawn. Thankfully, his mother doesn’t try following them outside. She’s taken plenty of pictures already. 

“I don’t care!” Dustin interrupts his thoughts. It takes a couple seconds for Mike to realize he hasn’t heard anything more than white noise for the past minute. “Musketeers are _good_.” 

“You’re gross!” 

“Says the kid who had a crush on Sta-“ 

Lucas is quick to cut the words off, slapping Dustin with his empty cloth trick or treat bag. 

“You did not-“ another slap. Finally, Dustin snaps. He leans forward to Lucas, repaying him with his own slap against Lucas’s arm. 

“Dude!” Lucas shouts back as if he didn’t start this. A much needed laugh erupts from Mike as he joins in hitting Lucas as well. Swiftly, Lucas lunges forward, tackling Dustin and Mike both in one go. The three of them stumble to the ground in a pile of limbs. A hand smacks Mike in the eye before he can sit up straight. The sound of an approaching car easily catches their attention. 

Dustin continues squirming against the weight of the two boys on top of him. “Shit! Get off already!” he writhes, “it’s Will!” 

Sure enough, it’s Jonathan’s car that pulls up to the curb.

“Get off!” Dustin shouts again. Mike’s stumbling out of Lucas’s grip, scrambling to his feet like a foal standing up for the first time. He hears an ‘ouch’ behind him where he’s apparently elbowed Lucas in the nose. 

“Asshole!” Lucas is back to swinging his bag at Mike. 

The sound of a car door shocks the three of them to stand perfectly still, waiting for Jonathan to stroll up behind Will as he approaches. Confusion weighs heavy over the group at the sight of just Will. It lasts for about four seconds before Dustin’s reaching a hand out, encouraging Will to join their circle. Mike catches the last second appreciative turn and the smile Will gives Jonathan. It’s clear that he’s been given the okay to join them alone. 

“Fuck yeah!” Dustin air punches, “let’s get this show on the road!” 

“I gotta be back by 9,” Will finally speaks up. 

He fidgets nervously with the camcorder in hand when neither Dustin or Lucas respond. They seem unbothered; their minds clearly occupied somewhere else. Mike hears him though, and he curves his body around Dustin’s to speak to Will. “Don’t worry, we will get you back in time,” he offers a warm smile, and that’s the end of that. 

“Top 3 for me,” Dustin declares as he leads the group down the end of Mrs. Miller’s driveway. 

Mike lets out a frustrated groan. This is the second time Dustin and Lucas have argued about 3 Musketeers. “Give it a break!” he calls out over Lucas’s shoulder. 

Lucas snarls to let out a boastful remark directed at Dustin, but suddenly, there’s a knife being shoved in his face. He breaks off in a scream, terror evident on his face as he plasters himself behind Dustin. Laughter mocks his reaction from behind the mask, which once removed reveals none other than Mad-Max. 

“God, your scream—” she laughs harder, unable to finish her sentence. “So, where to?” 

Dustin and Lucas’s arguing finally stops as the two of them jog to catch up to her. Now it’s Max who’s leading the group instead of Dustin, and it boils Mike’s blood. He finds himself slowing down for a second, letting the cold breeze chill his anger. 

Will doesn’t comment on her joining. His feet keep a consistent pace behind the rest of the group, and it reminds Mike to walk a little faster. 

“Did you know?” He can’t help but ask Will once he’s at his side. “About her joining.” 

“You didn’t?” Will frowns, puzzled. 

Mike just angrily shakes his head, feeling somewhat betrayed his best friend knew and didn’t mention it either. “Of course.” _They wouldn’t mention it to me. They knew I wouldn't agree._ The realization makes it sting just a little bit more, and Mike’s walking faster to deface the wind. 

It’s white noise again as the next house comes into view. He’s circling into the driveway; his eyes trained on Max’s back. How could they forgive her so easily for almost running them over? What if they got hurt? What if _she_ got hurt? He can’t handle losing another friend. 

The thought makes him stop in place, scaring Mike back to reality. He hears it then. Will’s screaming out his name in a blind panic, but he can’t tell where from. “Guys!” he shouts out to his friends. 

He doesn’t wait for them, assuming they’re already following behind as he crosses the lawn. Will’s shouts are growing louder as he turns down the steps, where he easily spots his best friend curled into a ball. 

“Will!” He shakes him, frantically. 

“Mike?” Will’s voice croaks. His eyes are prickled with tears. Guilt washes over Mike like a tidal wave as Dustin’s racing down the steps shouting out profanities. 

“Shit! What happened?!” 

“I-I don’t know.” It's like watching a nightmare come to life. “I’m just gonna take him home.” He turns back to Dustin and Lucas, who both nod. 

“Do you want us to go too?” Dustin asks them both, but his eyes are telling when they’re only watching Will. 

Mike finally glances over to Max, who looks utterly shocked and somewhat afraid. God, why did his friends ever invite her?! “No, keep trick or treating.” He answers for Will. They really don’t need her tagging along. “I’m bored anyways.” 

Dustin nods again, and Mike turns back to pull Will up from the concrete. Dustin’s rushing to his side, trying to help pull Will up too. Thunder courses through Mike as he pulls Will up on his own, tucking him up under his arm. “I got it.” He sternly tells Dustin before turning his back to help Will up the stairs. 

“Mike!” Dustin shouts out after him in disbelief. 

It occurs to Mike as they later approach his house that this isn’t the first ‘episode’ he’s witnessed. At the arcade, he’d been the only one to approach Will. He regrets shouting at Dustin, who is surely confused right now. 

Mike ushers Will forward into his basement, leading his shaky friend to the couch. Their bags of candy are quickly discarded onto the table. Will falls back into the cushions on his own, and his leg is bouncing anxiously. Slowly, Mike wanders to his side and joins him on the couch. 

It’s not till Will’s leg stops shaking that he speaks up. “I just— I just feel so stuck sometimes.” 

“Stuck?” 

“Yeah.” Will’s breaths soften, “like stuck between worlds. Like— Like I could hear it before I could see it.” 

“See what? The Demogorgan?” 

“No,” Will’s fast to disagree. “No, it was much bigger than that. It was like a shadow in the sky, and it—“ 

“Yeah?” Mike encourages when Will struggles for words. 

“It was coming for me.” 

The words hang out in the open, and they surely don’t help with the guilt already paining Mike’s chest. 

“I feel like such a freak sometimes.” Will continues, “I— I can't tell if it’s in my head or not. Please, just don’t tell the others. They’d never understand.” 

“Y’know,” Mike starts after a beat of silence, “Sometimes that’s how I feel about Eleven. It’s like I still see her. I still talk to her even though she isn’t there. I feel crazy.” 

“Me too.” Will agrees. 

Mike leans forward, seizing Will’s hand in his. He grips tighter when their eyes meet. “Hey, well, if we’re both going crazy, at least we’re going crazy together, right?” 

“Yeah,” Will grips back. “Crazy together.” 

## ii. Jonathan

Jonathan eyes Tina’s house, a cookie cutter suburban ranch style, with disdain. Currently, it’s only distinguished from its neighbors by a pop music pulse and bright, obnoxious orange lights. The petite freshman on the porch, dripping with fake blood and cheap vodka and splattering the front steps, is the cherry on top. _Delightful._

Despite the unappealing atmosphere, Jonathan resigns himself to going inside. He weaves through the horde of shambling, drunken teens milling about. More of them spill outside as he plunges into the sea of bodies.

He looks over the mass of churning arms and the storm of cacophonous music, babble, and fake laughter, hoping to glimpse a flash of bouncy hair or a set of knowing eyes. Finding neither straight away, Jonathan plasters himself to the wall, right next to the only other person who doesn’t seem to be wearing a costume. 

There’s something familiar about her, but not quite in the same vague way as most of the other people here. It’s like he’s trying to adjust the focus for a candid shot and can’t get the lenses just right. It’s like he almost remembers. 

Sharp dark eyes swim beneath the waves of her sandy brown hair. Her gray turtleneck is sensible for the weather, and it accentuates how long her limbs are. Jonathan suspects that she may be a bit taller than he is, even though she’s leaning against the wall. 

She squints into her plastic cup like it has offended her. “Do you think this might have rat poison in it?” She abruptly thrusts the contents under his nose. 

Whatever _is_ in it sends him into a coughing fit.

“I really don’t want to find out,” he gasps. 

She smirks, and suddenly he knows where he’s seen her before. 

“Aren’t you the girl who smashed a clarinet over Brad Buchannon’s head?” 

“I’m also in your soc and lit classes, but everyone remembers the clarinet thing,” she mutters. 

Jonathan winces. “Eh, sorry. I usually keep to myself. I probably wouldn’t even know about that if I hadn’t seen it happen. I’m generally pretty deaf when it comes to the rumor mill. Started blocking it out ages ago.” He shifts his weight in an attempt to physically dispel how awkward he feels. “I’m Jonathan, by the way,” he tacks on at the end of his apology, “Jonathan Byers.” 

She pushes off of the wall and shoves her cup into the hands of a random passerby. They gulp it down without question or even looking to see where it came from. Rolling her eyes, she reaches out a hand. He takes it. 

“Robin Buckley.” Her grip is bruising, and if Brad wasn’t one of the biggest douches at Hawkins High, Jonathan would almost feel bad for him. “I know of you, a bit. I’m glad you got your brother back,” she adds, and she seems sincere. 

They talk about real things for a while, things that don’t feel like small talk. It’s somewhat personal, but nothing too deep. Robin may be cool, but Jonathan isn’t an idiot. He doesn’t mention the Upside Down or anything about Will. Instead, they argue a little about music genres and discuss leaving Hawkins. She wants to be a lawyer or a social worker in a big city, and he can picture it. 

From the corner of his eye, he notices a familiar coiff floating towards the door. Robin thankfully seems to understand when he half pivots after it. She pulls a pen out of her pocket and grabs his closest hand, scrawling something on it. 

“Okay, Byers, we can be friends. You’re nothing like Brad, but I’ve been wrong before. You’re getting the same disclaimer as everyone else. Only call me if you want to argue about David Bowie some more.” 

“He’s unique!” Jonathan insists, unwilling to process what she’s implying, but she’s already shoving him away. 

“Go find your friend! I should probably do the same,” she mumbles the latter part to herself. 

Still bewildered, he stumbles back outside. Steve has woven his own space in the carpet of the grass, and the way he moves almost tricks Jonathan into thinking the music isn’t terrible. _And he’s not even dancing, really..._

Jonathan clears his throat. Steve whirls, waving his beer bottle. 

“Hey man!” he greets Jonathan cheerily, as if they never stopped being friends, vaguely became rivals, or fought over the cleverest girl in Hawkins. _Well, one of them, anyway._

Berating himself for following...a dream, maybe, some nebulous feeling, Jonathan gropes for something to say and settles on, “Where’s Nancy?” 

Steve smiles the way he used to whenever he would press his gloves or a new comic or a pretty rock into Jonathan’s hands. The tooth gap is gone, but the enthusiasm is still there. It’s a smile Jonathan has only started seeing again recently. 

“-way, they’re still talking. She has a lot of friends,” Steve finishes. Jonathan wants to smack himself for zoning out. He rips his eyes away from Steve’s mouth. 

“You cut your hair,” Steve says after a pause. Jonathan has to stop himself from touching it. He still isn’t quite used to how light it feels or how the autumn chill bites into his nape. 

“You grew yours out,” he returns. 

Steve chuckles. “Guess we switched styles. Short suits you, though.” 

Jonathan feels like he drank the molten garbage from Robin’s cup. The cold isn’t bothering him anymore, at least. 

“You look nice, too,” he somehow manages to say around the knot of his tongue. Steve only hums and worries his lip. Jonathan can’t tell if his flush is from the alcohol or not. _Goddammit, stop staring!_

They’re rescued by the rapid crunch of footsteps. Nancy skids into view between them, stray curls swinging from her updo. A red bandana holds it in place, and Jonathan’s never seen her wear so much denim at once. For an absurd moment, he thinks she’s dressed as Steve, but then he gets it. 

“Rosie the Riveter, right? Nice,” he tells her. 

She beams at him. “Thanks! You wouldn’t believe how many people didn’t get it. We learned about World War II ages ago!” 

Shaking her head at the general apathy of their peers, she turns to Steve. 

“I thought you said you were going to dress up.” She punctuates her statement with an eyebrow lift. 

Steve spreads his hands. “I did! Wait, look.” After a moment of rummaging through his pockets, he pulls out a shaggy mask. He stares at them expectantly.

“And?” Jonathan finally prompts. Steve shakes the mask, but it’s still too misshapen for him to make out what it is. 

“I’m a teenage werewolf!” Steve claims. He throws back his head and shakes out his hair. “Awooo!” he mimics, lifting a hand to cup his mouth. 

“Like Michael Jackson and Michael J. Fox,” he insists proudly. 

Jonathan has to hand it to him. Most people could not have done that without looking like a huge douchebag or a dweeb. Somehow, he made it charming. 

Nancy must agree, because she laughs like she used to in the hallways. An extra dab of red lingers at the corner of her lips, and Jonathan wipes it away before he can catch himself. He blames Steve for dazzling him and lowering his inhibitions. 

The combined weight of their gazes makes him want to curl up and catch fire like the spices of a godly sacrifice, to let them consume him. 

Nancy breaks the spell with a sharp gasp. She yanks Jonathan’s wrist higher to see it more clearly in orange light. “Is this someone’s number?” she asks, voice strangled. Steve crowds closer to look. 

Jonathan flits between their carefully curious expressions, with Nancy’s succeeding more than Steve’s, although her voice has already given her away. He feels inexplicably ashamed. 

“I didn’t ask for it!” he hurries to explain, “And she specifically said we could be friends but only to call her to argue about music,” he paraphrases rapidly. They exchange uncertain glances. 

“That...still sounds like flirting,” Nancy mutters. Steve, ever the empath even if he won’t admit it, steps in to mediate. Tossing the mask over his shoulder in some kind of sporty trick shot, he slings an arm around Jonathan and Nancy, sandwiching her between them. 

“Hey, even if this chick was flirting, it’s not like it was Jon’s fault. Besides, girls can be forward, too, Rosie.” He gestures to Nancy’s costume with the hand that’s still holding a bottle. She pouts, but Jonathan barely registers it. The time jumps out at him from where it’s gleaming on Steve’s wrist, and he realizes that he shouldn’t be standing here trying to detangle confusing feelings—he should be checking on his traumatized kid brother. 

Jonathan curses, ungluing himself from the heat of Nancy’s side and the weight of Steve’s arm. “If I don’t leave soon, I’ll be late, I have to go pick up Will.” 

Nancy looks between him and Steve, eyebrows creased. “I’m already stopping at your place, you’re welcome to come, too,” he rushes, wanting to let her choose but also itching to leave. She quickly wraps an arm around Steve in turn, reciprocating the half-hug, and they both peel away from him. A quiet goodbye reaches Jonathan’s ears, but he would feel like an idiot if he waved or something, so he doesn’t respond. 

As he and Nancy start to roll out, he resists the urge to keep peeking in the rearview mirror. That damn smile and the crimson lipstick keep replaying in his mind like a film reel. Maybe he’s paranoid after a lifetime of kindness being warped or too good to be true, but his first instinct is to run—not that checking on Will is just an excuse, even if it feels a little like one. He turns up the music in the hopes that it’ll discourage Nancy from talking about it. 

He glimpses the moment her eyes light with panic. While he was looking at her, she was looking behind them in the mirror. 

“Steve!” she cries, “He’s in trouble!” 

Jonathan sends up a prayer for the family car as he forces it to turn as fast as it can. It groans in protest, but people scramble to get out of their way as they successfully barrel back in the direction they’d come from. The combined party lights and headlights clearly capture Hargrove, fist poised to strike as he keeps Steve pinned to a tree.

Nancy pokes her head out the window before “let me handle this” can even leave Jonathan’s lips. 

“You’ve got a lot of nerve picking fights when you look like a used feather duster, asshole!” she seethes. Hargrove’s head whips around, face split into a maniacal grin. He brings his fist down maybe an inch away from Steve’s cheek, and Steve winces. “Go!” he mouths. Jonathan shakes his head. 

“You freaks came back to watch? I knew you were a couple of perverts, Wheeler!” he crows. 

Jonathan inches a little closer and Hargrove laughs. “What, are you going to kill me, Byers? And Stevie, here, too? Have us join your zombie brother?” 

He sees red. “Take the wheel,” he tells Nancy, trusting her to slide over in his place as he opens the driver-side door. Jonathan marches right up to Hargrove, who looks amused until Jonathan yanks him off of Steve and throws him to the ground. He grabs the beer bottle from Steve’s sweaty hand and turns to plant himself in front of Steve. 

“For the record,” he spits, “I wouldn’t have run you over, but she might.” He nods to Nancy, who revs the engine, face hardened. 

Hargrove looks rapidly between the three of them, glances at their faces, the car, and the bottle. Finally, he scoffs. “You’re all fucking crazy. I didn’t even have to fight pretty boy for his crown. He gave it up for you losers. How pathetic.” Getting up, he retreats back to the house and into the open arms of some random girl, scowling over her head. 

“Do you want to leave with us? There should be just enough room,” Jonathan mutters in Steve’s direction, not ready to take his eyes off of Hargrove (or to face Steve again) just yet. Steve sighs. 

“I would, but Dad’ll totally flip if the car’s not in the driveway tomorrow morning. Plus I’ve only had like, two of these shitty beers. I’ll be fine for now. But thanks for coming back, man.” Steve squeezes his hand, and it takes all of his self restraint not to flinch. “It means a lot.” 

Jonathan pauses. He thinks about squeezing back, but Steve decides for him and lets go before he can. Finally, he says, “I can’t stand bullies. And, well, ever since you helped us fight, and you got me that camera—don’t deny it, you’ve always liked to give gifts, or you did—I don’t really see you as one of them, anymore. So. Thanks for—getting back to yourself, I guess.” _God, I sound like I’m on Happy Days._ Embarrassed, he doesn’t turn around.

This time, though, when Steve tells him goodbye, Jonathan softly says it back.

## iii. Dustin

Dustin parts from Lucas with a shoulder bump, a hefty bag of candy, and a snarl of mixed emotions. Things had gradually gone back to being alright, almost normal, after something crawled up Mike’s asshole and he spirited Will away. Max had distracted him and Lucas with questions and quips along their route, and they had tentative plans for a rematch at the arcade. 

When Lucas offered to walk her the rest of the way home, though, as it was on his way anyhow, she got quiet. Chameleon quiet, like she wanted to turn invisible, not unlike Will. While he was usually timid, the sudden cloud of silence did not seem to fit the girl who’d recently flipped off Mr. Whitman and told him to get stuffed after he’d berated her for breathing too close to his begonias. 

Dustin had started to stutter out a sentence about candy corn, hoping to bait her with an opportunity to snark, but Lucas talked over him and their clumsy attempts at further conversation snuffed one another out. 

She’d then thrown a candy bar at each of them, muttered something about taxes, and zipped away as quickly as she’d ambushed them earlier. 

He hopes that Max will stick around. While El had been cool, she was automatically cool because she’d had powers, which was kind of a cop out. She could coast on those without developing a personality. Yeah, it sucked that she wasn’t treated like a human being until she escaped, and it really sucked that she was—gone, but the best superheroes learned and grew from stuff like that. They could be cool and deal with trauma at the same time, like Spiderman.

Maybe, if she was still out there somewhere, she could start to develop a sense of self that went beyond lashing out at people. Dustin likes to think that she is, maybe while slaying some monsters on the side in the Upside Down. 

Max, though? Max is cool because she doesn’t take anyone’s shit, and she knows all kinds of new stuff about Cali, novel information that won’t get anyone kidnapped or killed or associated with communism. It wouldn’t even matter if she was the Queen of fucking England, though, because Mike’s eyes scream disapproval. 

It's the rules of the party. Dustin doesn’t know when he started mindlessly listening to orders barked by Mike, but after tonight, he feels like he shouldn’t. Mike is clearly _wrong_ about her. 

Mostly for fun—and slightly out of spite, he hopes Mike’s ears are burning—he belts out a few more “totally tubular”s. Sure, Max said most Californians don’t really say that, but it sounds so laid back and beachy. Dustin can’t help but to marvel over the phrase a little bit. 

He’s spitting a hurricane of t’s and low-back vowels when he hears it: the tinkle and scraping of something sifting through the Henderson’s trash. 

_Shit. Mom will have a cow if Mews got out._

“Mews?” he tries, creeping closer. “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit….” 

It’s not Mews. In fact, it’s not a lot of things. Dustin has never seen _anything_ like this slimy little creature, not here in Hawkins. Maybe in the pages of a science-fiction story. 

Somehow, he manages to snatch it up with his ghost trap. He’s practically vibrating once he coaxes it into eating some of his favorite candy, and Dustin can’t keep calling the creature it, can he? No, even if this is an important scientific discovery, that seems a little too detached. 

“D’art,” he whispers, “they’re going to love you. Oh, this is perfect.” 

It’ll be just like that time they discovered a piece of petrified wood, only a hundred times cooler. Mike might even get over his dislike of Max in the midst of everyone’s excitement.

When he closes his eyes, he tells himself that the sooner he falls asleep, the sooner he can show off D’art during school, but it’s hard to ignore the lack of familiar red light from the tank, and harder to ignore the bright red traces of frustration that still simmer in his chest. 


End file.
